Parting of Ways
--
Part I: Understanding
Among the vain and the fickle
Stand the few, who know the truth,
That a glass rose is not perfect
What's more, they don't look to the lies,
But instead accept the truth as it is
And accept the fact openly…
With unquestioned understanding
Frigid, late-winter breezes wash over my face, scarlet tendrils of my hair billowing out before my eyes on the updrafts. Half-lidded, I gaze with tired fascination at the passing scenery. Glittering crystals of pure snow cling idly to bare tree limbs and ornate the frozen grass in a white, ethereal powder. Glowing brilliantly in the vast cerulean sky, the sun radiates a blinding, pulsating light, though it has not one ray of warmth to cast upon my numb body.
"Shuichi, are you alright, dear?" Mother's voice permeates my lulled thoughts, pulling me from my disillusioned state of mind.
"Yes, Mother," I reply slowly, my voice tired and strained. I sigh, "just tired, I suppose."
"Of course you are," she replies matter-of-factly.
When she says nothing more I return to staring, without real purpose or intent, out the window.
While the miraculous display of winter is a sight to behold, the brightness radiated by the snow, scattered scarcely, yet abundantly over the earth, causes much irritation for my tired eyes, and gives me a headache. I close my eyes, and yet, through heavy eyelids, white still envelops my senses.
My temples throb painfully, and with each wave of pain enveloping my senses, another palpation matches its rhythm. My head is pounding; my heart is pounding.
Struggling to lift my eyelids, I cast a glance to one of my exposed wrists. In the pale winter light my skin looks white as snow, almost translucent and much less startling. Although months have passed since the incident, fine lines of beaded crimson knots still ornate my flesh.
I suppose my human body requires larger lengths of time to heal now that Youko cannot interfere.
I lift my other arm, numb fingers ghosting a silent path towards the delicate flesh. With discrete gentleness I press upon the marred tissue. Brief pain surges through my body — a sharp, shooting pain that subsides with the calm beating of my pulse.
I feel my heart beating beneath my flesh; calmly, placidly. I frown slightly and pull my hand away. I have no business having a pulse; every assuring throb of my heart only tells me otherwise.
Painful scratching sensations seize my throat, and though I am only partially aware of it, I find myself overcome by a torrent of wracking coughs. I pull my hands towards my mouth — an automatic thing that has become an almost reflexive response by now — cringing in pain as I do so, and cover my mouth, coughing uncontrollably. Each torrential spasm grasps me anew, my throat feeling as though someone is ripping through the delicate tissue with a knife. As soon as the thought of the knife comes to mind, if on command, I am greeted by the as-of-late so familiar metallic tang of blood in the back of my throat.
A few moments later I manage to stop the coughing spasms and fall still once more, though I find myself shaking slightly for some unforeseen reason.
"Shu— Shuichi. You're bleeding," mother's voice whispers hoarsely, a hint of unbidden fear eking out in her tone.
I nod, already being aware of the slow trickle of a liquid — presumably the said blood — that is slipping from the corner of my lips.
I lift a hand and brush nimbly at the trickle of liquid issuing from my mouth. Indeed, I am right in my assumptions. Gazing towards my raised hand I see the droplets of blood, the remnants of the rivulet tracing from my lips, lingering on my fingers. Plucking a Kleenex from the center console area, situated between the two front seats, I dab away at the crimson droplet.
I suppose one would expect that I should be unnerved by the discovery that I am bleeding internally on a relative basis but, actually, it is a relatively common occurrence by now. It has been this way for the last three months, I recall bitterly.
Ever since my ill-fated diagnosis, it has been this way. The hospital staff assured me that what they were doing as part of my medical regimen was completely conventional. Their methods have, of course, always been unorthodox, but this was quite the new development. The stage of my treatment called 'automatic remission' was, in a way, another hell reborn for me.
For the first few weeks there were regular hospital visits, four days a week in which I would receive daily Chemo, and three to allow my body to recover some lost blood cells and replenish my counts. Then the process would start anew. Then, there was radiation treatment, by far the most farfetched treatment I have heard of. Radiation is just as likely to give you cancer so why on God's green earth would they risk using it to cure the self-same illness? That is ningen reasoning for you.
After some time on radiation therapy and after receiving innumerable transfusions, the doctors approached mother and I with some startling news. My counts were doubling, and my condition was feasibly worsening. So, basically, all their methods had failed.
And so, this brings us to now. I find myself back on Chemotherapy, and am receiving white blood cell transfusions on a regular basis. They hope that I will not relapse for the worse again, because once a patient with my condition relapses, chances of permanent remission or of overall being cured, is lessened considerably.
It is ironic that in trying to 'save' me, they have inevitably made my condition worse. I suppose it is not their fault entirely, however. My Youko soul, his essence, still resides within me, and that is undoubtedly one of the unforeseen factors that is contributing to the fact that my condition is only worsening.
Yet, in spite of everything, I am worse off than I was before all of the humans' meddling — no matter how well-intentioned . Weak, tired, prone to infection; the poison they pump regularly into my veins is ruining me. And sometimes — sometimes — it is all I can do just to keep myself from taking up the nearest sharp object I can find and slashing with frantic, manic strokes at every inch of my exposed flesh that I can come in contact with to rip open the vessels and allow myself to bleed; bleed to rid my body of the disgusting poisons they fill my veins with.
Really, just to bleed again for the sheer, excruciating joy of feeling such a familiar relief. Sometimes, all that stops me from returning to my prior ways is knowing that the woman, Shiori, would come out of it worse than I would in the long run. But, can anyone truly blame me for wanting to tear into myself again? The hellish substance they fill me with does nothing to help my situation. If anything, it has made it worse.
The car pulls to a stop in the driveway and I unbuckle myself and open the door, pulling slowly from the vehicle on weak knees. Mother is ahead of me and I make to follow her into the house. But my body does not seem to want to respond. I stand numb, rooted to the spot, my eyes lingering painfully on the remnants of my garden. Mother is already standing on the foyer, before the door, waiting for me. Still, I do not draw nearer to her; I step towards my garden plot.
"Shuichi, come along, dear," she calls, waving me over towards the house. "Come inside. You'll only catch your death out here in this weather, with not even a coat on—"
"Leave me be. You've no reason to treat me as such a fragile thing when I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself without your intervention," I snap back sharply, my eyes narrowing in annoyance.
But despite my snapped response, due in part largely by the Youko within me, even he is not daring enough to chance looking at mother now.
"Shuichi?" her voice is tired, and pained.
I cringe mentally and sigh heavily, turning to shoot her a sidelong glance. "Forgive me, Mother. I did not mean what I said — I am sorry. Please, do not worry about me."
Among other things, another not-quite-as-subtle effect of the medication regimen I have been placed on is sudden outbursts of annoyance. The mood swings that accompany my medications cause me to say several ill-thought-out things to people; namely the people I care about, and who do not deserve to be placed at the forefront of my brash, untrue comments. Things I always regret saying in the long run.
"Mother," I try again, reigning in my temper, "if it is all the same with you, please allow me to stay out for awhile. I am aware that it is cold, and my health is frail, but I implore you."
She studies me critically for a moment, as she has so often been doing, before striding purposefully to my side. She slips the thin-worn coat she wears from her slim shoulders and drapes it over me. Her hand raises itself to the side of my face and her slim fingers brush a delicate line down my cheek. Then she leans up and kisses me on the forehead and pulls away.
"Just for a few moments then, dear." Then, she disappears into the house.
--
Snow covers the frail shoots left clinging lifelessly to brittle frost-bare twigs; the only remnants of my beautiful roses for this season. Seeing them like this sends a wave of cold dread pulsing over my body. Or perhaps I am just cold in this weather. Either way, the feeling does not bode well.
Crisp flakes of pure crystal shroud the garden plot, a certain eerie dead feeling encompassing the area. It will remain as such until next spring; dormant. Dead.
Something about winter — even autumn — has never gone over well with me. Perhaps it is because of the unnatural bond I have with plants; as the seasons that harbor such death come to call, I myself am put ill at ease. My mood darkens starkly when the weather brings forth the death of my plants, and my health always seems to be poor. Now, it holds no different.
A sick swooping feeling in the bottom of my stomach washes over me, a hot stinging sensation rising within me and spreading over my limbs. I close my eyes and concentrate on the feeling, trying to lesson the sensation, and yet it doesn't work. I open my eyes, the bright winter light punishing my eyes and forcing them shut again. A slow, hot burn seeps over me, my senses all on fire, and my mind wracked with sharp slashing pains, which ebb away slowly on my pulse. Yet the hot burning feeling lingers, my strength sapping exponentially. Then, it becomes unbearably cold.
--
"Shuichi…" A gentle, timid voice whispers through the darkness. My mind is a spiral of haze and uncertainty, so the voice goes momentarily unrecognized until I can pull together a strand of thought and conclude who's voice it is.
"Mother?" The word stumbles feebly from my lips, my voice weak, and throat sore and feeling as though daggers have shredded through it. I attempt opening my eyes, and half-lidded, I can discern the image of my mother. In the shallow lighting another thing catches my attention. Silent, glimmering ripples trailing from her eyes…
Tears.
Why? Why the tears?
She gasps in surprise as I attempt to push myself into a sitting position, succeeding only after she helps steady my shaking and unresponsive form.
"What happened to you?" she mutters feebly, her voice shaking in fear and uncertainty.
I shake my head slowly, dizziness resurfacing mildly as I do so and bringing a wave of nausea that makes me wretch convulsively with it. "I don't know," I manage despite the pain in my throat, shaking my head slowly and hoping the nausea will not rejoin it.
"Well… I-I've contacted the doctor… he-he wants to see you tomorrow morning…"
I nod, another measured, deliberate movement. "Understandable."
"Yes, well." She stands up. "Dear, I would thank your friend, there—" she motions with a sweep of her hand towards one of the shadowed corners of the room. "The boy found you and informed me." She glances awkwardly towards where she had previously motioned, obviously uneasy, and hurries from the room, the door shutting behind her quietly.
I take a moment to glance towards the corner, hoping to see whom she had referred.
The rigid countenance strikes me familiarly, and his small from is drawn in tightly, his hair baring traces of a light, fresh snow fall, and soaked bangs clinging to his pale glistening flesh. Crimson eyes take me in steadily as I watch him, and I can tell there is an air of uncertainty about him.
I turn away slightly, averting my gaze from his small figure.
Since that night in the hospital I have not seen him, nor have I spoken to him. Since that night he has kept his distance, and I deliberately made no effort to change the fact. He had acted rashly and unfairly. I did not appreciate it. So, months passed between us, the only remnants of the relationship between us, of the friendship shared between us, were the shadows and echoes that lingered. And now, now of all times he chooses to rebuild the bridge between verses?
Some bridges are best left burned, and some bridges are best left un-built…
Silence falls over the room like a thick fog; I train my tired gaze to the floor, examining, without much, if any, intent, the silver threads of the carpet. He still stands in the shadows, lurking almost, his form taught and drawn. Then finally, his voice breaks through the stillness.
"Kurama, you were right." His voice is tired, as though saying those four simple little words has drained his strength reserves entirely.
I stay silent, feeling that I have nothing to say. I refuse to meet his gaze.
"Maybe I was afraid to come to grips with the fact that you're not the same person." His voice grows weak, almost reflective.
I still say nothing.
"But, the fact remains, you're different. I have to live with that. And I haven't been."
"Really, who would have thought that?" I reply coldly at his latest statement, my eyes narrowing in sheer annoyance as I finally turn to face him.
He meets my gaze unflinchingly, though his crimson orbs dim considerably at the sight of me so visibly and obviously annoyed — as a human, obviously my emotions are a bit more transparent than they had been when I was Youko. When he speaks, his voice is dead, "You're ever the wit, just like Youko."
"Perhaps." I reply calmly, toning down the harshness of my voice, though still allowing the annoyance I feel at having him appear to me like this, and my irritancy at him linking me to Youko again, be apparent.
He nods slowly, more to himself than to me. "Yes. But still, you're not Youko. You're Kurama; Shuichi…"
"There is no need for you to tell me who I am," I reprimand him mildly, my gaze softening at his reluctance.
"I'm aware of that," he snaps, but half-heartedly. "But I need you to tell me who you are. I can't know you if you're not sure about who you want to be — which one you want to be."
I drop my gaze again, the gravity of his last sentence striking me painfully. "You answered your own question a moment ago. That is who I am — who I chose, Hiei."
A moment of silence follows, as he draws himself out of the shadows and approaches my bedside. His gaze, once cold and calculating, is impossibly softened in emotion. His gaze captures mine intently for a moment, his crimson eyes locking with mine. Then he turns away sharply, his gaze averted, and black bangs masking his features from view when he next speaks.
"You are Shuichi. I know you'll never be Youko again." His voice is flat and I cannot help but wonder why he has turned away from me. I can perhaps hazard a guess as to why, however.
"You are right," I reply slowly, nodding. "Youko is my past; he always will be, and I would do well to remember that. But Shuichi is my future and you would do well to remember that as well."
"I know that," he replies tiredly, grudging acceptance. "I know you were right. You're not the same, but you're not all that different either."
"In hindsight, I would say that you are right," I grant him with a slight, thoughtful nod.
"I was only afraid to accept that fact."
"Fear is such a curious thing," I muse. "And on the note of curious things," I tilt my head towards him curiously, "What brings you back?"
My response elicits a light chuckle from him. "To the point as ever, I see."
"Some aspects of a person never change despite the time thrown between them," I reply lightly, allowing my lips to tuck up the merest fraction of an inch when I see he has turned once again to face me.
"It's good to know… Fox."
"Back on a friendly terms, then, are we?" I ask, observing the renewed use of him using my 'pet' name while referring to me.
He recoils slightly, as though afraid that I might be angry for his sudden change in demeanor.
"You've always been my friend, Fox," he concedes mildly, a faint blush creeping into his cheeks as he admits this to me. "I just had to realize that wouldn't change no matter which form life has you assume."
"And you have been my friend through the years as well," I supply casually, suppressing a chuckle at the sight of him so clearly ill-at-ease when he is attempting to bare his soul.
"I guess things really haven't changed, hm, Fox?" he sighs, moving towards my window.
"Not quite so," I reply sternly, a slight frown creasing my features. "It does no good to pretend that things have not changed, Hiei. You do realize—"
"Hn. Of course I understand. In fact, that's why I came back."
"Do tell."
"I thought a lot about what you said," he admits in what I am supposed to take as an off-handed manner — and in the same sentence he is admitting that our argument weighed heavily on him, actually affected him.
At the second notion I cannot help but smile. At least now I know that what conspired that night affected him at least as badly as it did me, and his is giving me another one of those rare moments of insight into himself — those moments that I so relish for these very reasons. Because it serves to remind me, and probably himself, that we really are not so different.
"Thinking about it—" his voice pulls me back to attention and from my wandering thoughts. "The choice you made was really the only one I should have expected from you. But I only understand that choice. I can't understand why you're making this choice."
"This choice?" I repeat confused.
He nods his head heavily. "Yes. This choice. Why continue it? What made you choose this when it's clearly not what you want."
"Lately, I do not know much of what I want," I add thinly.
"Stop playing the optimist. It doesn't suit you at all," he barks, throwing me a disgusted look.
I chuckle, rolling my eyes. "Practice makes perfect and all that, you know."
"Idiot Fox," he sighs deftly, though I can tell he is not using the term derogatively, but with a friendly affection. "I just came to tell you that I finally understand you. And your choices."
"Choices?" I ask, wondering as to why he used the plural form of the word. "I have only made one as of yet, as far as I am aware."
"Then you aren't very aware, are you?" he grumbles, rapping his knuckles against the pane of my window and letting out a long, heavy sigh.
"So fill me in you mangy Firefly," I challenge him, failing miserably in my attempt to sound menacing, which only makes the laugh I am already staving off threaten even more.
"I understand the choice you made," he begins slowly, apparently not in a playful mood. "And I understand the choice you're going to make if you stop lying to yourself," he finishes as he picks at the locks on my window and opens the thing.
I remain silent, watching as the winter breeze picks up the tread of his cloak and sends it billowing out behind his small form fluidly. In a flash of black I catch the advance of a small gleaming object and instinctively extend my hand. With deft ease, I snatch the object from midair, clasping it tightly in my fist.
"You're reflexes are still sharp as ever," he comments from the window as he hoists himself upon the ledge with feline grace.
"You expected something less of me?" I reply teasingly. My reply warrants some muttered retort of 'cocky bastard just as always' from him. I chuckle.
"Well, I guess this is goodbye," he huffs, the words no more than a fleeting breath on the wind. "Farewell, Kurama."
"Farewell?" I inquire, confused. "You make it sound as though this will be the last time you see me among the living," I reply mildly, the corners of my mouth tilting upwards in a placid smile.
He turns to look at me; apparently my false cheer does not fool him. He shakes his head lightly, his piercing crimson eyes lingering on me with an air of sadness about them. His crimson gaze radiates an unspoken understanding and echoes his unbidden thoughts clearly: It's alright, I understand. You can stop lying to yourself.
I nod in sudden, unbidden understanding, breaking his gaze and turning instead to stare at some unforeseen pivotal point above his shoulder with unblinking eyes.
He darts from the window then, disappearing into the night as silently and suddenly as he had first come — so much like the shadows he clings to.
"Yes. Farewell, Hiei…" I whisper long after he has gone.
I unclench my fist to look for the first time upon the object he had thrown at me. Against my pale flesh the clear sparkling brilliance of the small spherical bead is magnified tenfold. The hirui is bound carefully to a long leather throng witch spills haphazardly from my grip, the black leather band dangling limply in the stilled night.
My reflection is mirrored silently in the small gem and I turn away from the bead.
He is right.
The hirui slips from my hold, falling with a muffled thud into the folds of my partially discarded bed sheet. It gleams innocently in the pale moonlight filtering in from my opened window.
I cannot continue lying to myself.
My hands clench tightly around the loose fabric of the sheets, my knuckles turning iridescent white in the ethereal light. My eyes gaze blankly at the single hirui gem.
I have lived so long in the shadows of the lies I forged out to live in this world. I have always been hiding behind the lies; always eclipsed by them; always in the dark…
"You are right, Hiei," I mumble to the silence. "It really is farewell…"
A single hirui bead glows in the pale light.
But now you have given me a chance to see the light.
For once, I will not lie. I will not hide from the truth.
For once, I will listen to my heart.
For once, I will not lie to myself…